


Corvidae

by Neffectual



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Gore, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 03:05:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2093283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neffectual/pseuds/Neffectual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What is it to be a demon, and does that gift you power, or powerlessness?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Corvidae

When he was a child, he used to watch the birds fly, lying on his back for hours, avoiding lessons and nanny's clumsy hands, spending all his hours trying to figure out what made the soar. He thinks his parents would scold him, but all he has are skilled drawings in a hand which probably isn't his father's, detailing every feather every bone, and using physics to explain the motion of flight. It isn't exactly what he wanted from the birds, but he supposed it was enough, then. Now, he wants to know the secrets they hide in their wings, the way their hearts beat, and the way their eyes are always looking at something far beyond human comprehension. 

That night, when he finds that Sebastian is his, he is Sebastian's, he runs, hiding, locking himself away as much as he can until he reaches his safe place, a house on the hill where no one goes, and huddles inside, under blankets, watching the ravens dance, croaking their song of familial melancholy to each other. A crow shifts out between them, and for a moment, it seems so human, so demonic. He watches as it chases the ravens off, cawing at them and intimidating the smaller birds into giving up their territory. It approaches the door, and he can not bear it any longer, runs towards the window and, pulling it open, climbs out, running back towards the estate without looking behind him. He doesn't need to; he know it's following, can hear the wingbeats as it keeps pace easily, as he runs out of breath at the door.

Sebastian lets him in, his face a perfect mask of butler-like disappointment at the state of him, and he spend the entirety of his bath ignoring the glare at the back of his neck. The crow's still out there, he knows this much, can feel it flitting around, trying to find a way in. He orders all doors and windows locked, imperiously, but can see the twist of Sebastian's lips telling him he will not be obeyed. He dresses himself for bed, shooing gloved hands away, too close for comfort, too close in memory to other hands, other voices, other moments. He wonders if this will ever fade, or if this is what they mean by eternal torment.

At night, the crow comes back. He can feel it lurking outside, and suddenly, all fear is gone. Is he a demon, or isn't he? And a crow is no messenger of God, come to soothe his soul – it can only be evil. He should no longer be afraid of evil. He slips out, finding the front door unlocked against his wishes, but then, he knew they wouldn't be complied with. The crow is there waiting, and he shuts the door quickly as it darts for the gap. For some reason, it's important that the bird doesn't find Sebastian, doesn't find his weakness. He doesn't yet know what it is, but he knows it means them ill. Nothing which feels that wrong can be the bearer of good news.

Suddenly, it hits him, and too late, the crow tries to get airborne, desperately beating too-heavy wings against air which, all of a sudden, will not cooperate with its sluggish body. He grips the wings, tearing them free, taking a brief second to see the bones, labelled, bleeding, back to the drawing again, before he's sucking the meat from them, pulling feathers aside, watching what is left of the bird wriggle on the ground before that too is devoured. He knows, now, what it is to feel evil in his soul, for there to be nothing left of this corvid but the skeleton and feathers. The skeleton, he gathers to take inside, to have Sebastian pin to velvet and frame on a wall somewhere, a trophy. He thought, before, that evil had consumed him, but now the consumption is mutual, and he loved each and every taste. Resolved, he straightens his frame, wipes a bloody hand across a bloodier mouth, and settles his nightshirt around him. He hides the feathers in the back garden, and never tells anyone about the crow.


End file.
